Superhuman
by footshooter
Summary: Just not in a superhero way... Set probably in series 2, but I'm not sure. T for swearing.


**A/N: Set probably in Series 2, but I didn't really place it when I was writing it. I just had the idea and thought I'd jot it down. It's fairly unrealistic (but is the series realistic, really? LOL) and I'm not sure how it places in the Being Human universe, but aye. Hopefully other than that it's good.**

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><p>George stood in the woods, and he waited.<p>

It was always awkward, this bit. The standing in the woods with his hand over his cock on red-alert in case someone just happened across him. He was as far into the woods as he could be, but he'd run across people before. That first night…

He shivered, and he didn't know whether it was from the cold, the memory or the fear of waking up covered in something that _wasn't _deer blood.

And then he shuddered again, and all of the hair on his body stood on end as though expecting, _waiting_, to start its growth.

A twig snapped behind him and he jumped, spinning around. His eyes were far better than his usual vision, leagues above human vision and completely adjusted to the low light, but he still squinted through the darkness because he couldn't _see _anyone.

But he could smell them, though.

"Mitchell?"

Mitchell had completely forgotten that George's senses were on maximum, and he sighed before jumping down from the tree he was hiding up. He hit the forest floor and George squealed.

"Hey, calm it mate."

"Mitchell! What the hell are you doing here?" George shouted, waving his arms in the air.  
>"Er, looking at your dick, at the moment."<p>

Mitchell smirked, and George blushed, covering himself up again. Mitchell waved his own hand.

"Ah, don't worry about it; it's nothing I haven't seen before."

George narrowed his eyes.

"What. Are. You. Doing. Here. Mitchell?"

Mitchell sighed again,

"George look, people have been following us, I'm convinced there's something going on. I don't want you to be out here on your own."  
>"So you'll risk being <em>killed <em>by me for it?"  
>"I'll keep out of the way! I'll stay out of reach. And lets put it this way, you won't need to worry about not finding your clothes or running into someone."<p>

Mitchell was smiling that infuriating smile that made George want to scream at him for being so _stupid_.

"Mitch-_**AL**_!"

And that's exactly what he did, because at that moment a sharp pain shot up his back and started crawling up his spine, feeling like hundreds and hundreds of knives were stabbing all of the way up.

And that was just the start.

He dropped to his knees, his pupils dilating and making everything around him sharper. On all fours he clenched his fits into leaves and howled in agony again. Mitchell frowned, and stepped forwards.

"George?"

The pain was spreading, prickling through his skin like white hot needles and itching. His bones were cracking and moving, he could feel his nails and hair and teeth growing, everything was changing, his organs were shrinking and constricting, crushing in on themselves and failing all at once.

George screamed again, still on all fours, still staring at the ground because he couldn't _do_ anything else. He couldn't move. He felt Mitchell's hand on his shoulder, and reached out to push it away but ended up holding on like his life depended on it. George was sure it was hurting him, his elongated nails digging into the skin, drawing blood. But Mitchell didn't complain. He just held on.

"Mitchell," George moaned through shallow gasps, trying to draw air into his shrivelled lungs. He closed his eyelids tight together and tears ran down his whiskered cheeks. When he reopened them, they were an eerie green.

"Mitchell, **GO**!"

"It's alright, George."

George wanted to shout at him, to scream and push and hit until Mitchell listened to him and actually ran. But he still had his arm in a death grip, and another wave of pain shot through him from his head to his toes. Everything was burning. He screamed, and was cut off halfway, his teeth reaching their maximum length, sharpening, his vocal cords snapping and rewriting, his hair growing long and coarse.

He dropped into Mitchell's lap, and Mitchell stroked his hair - a calming gesture that, at any other time, George would take for mockery. But not right now.

Because every time he changed he was terrified. Every single time he was terrified that he'd do something rash, that he'd lash out. That he wouldn't make it.

The first time, he was alone, he was staggering out of a hospital, disorientated with the moon shining down on him, cleansing, aching, agonising. He was so alone. And so, so scared.

He wished Mitchell had been there the first time. That he'd been there every time since. And he was being selfish, clinging on for dear life like he was. But Mitchell was helping.

George didn't want to die. And Mitchell would stop that from happening. Just by being there. He was sure of it.

And that's when his organs failed. They'd shrunk beyond capacity, and his body couldn't keep up. Mitchell stilled, and then prized George's hand from his bleeding arm and got to his feet. He was faintly aware that time was running out and if he didn't move now, then he'd be in little pieces scattered all over the forest floor before he knew it. And then not only would George be upset, but he'd be really fucking annoyed at him too.

He was about two meters away when he heard the growl, the snuffling sounds behind him, the padding of paws across dried leaves. He stopped dead, standing still as you would if confronted with a wild animal. Which he was being, really.

Through the creatures senses everything was different. It was all a haze of anger and rage. Everything was cool, seen through a sort of blue-ish nightvision. The werewolf could smell the fear coming from the creature in front of it. He didn't like how the creature smelled. It was of blood and decay and dust. It was a smell it was programmed to respond to, to fight, to attack, to tear. It couldn't run, it couldn't hide. It was something as old as time but it was as old as him too.

The werewolf advanced, and Mitchell's hand clenched in his pocket around George's Star of David. He hastily pulled it around his neck, encountering no burn and exhaled, causing the wolf's ears to flicker forward and another growl to come out of its throat. Mitchell didn't think he could make the tree quick enough – they were both supernatural, they were an easy match. He'd have to play it by ear.

Mitchell tried his best not to show his fear, knowing it was futile. He swallowed, trying to control his voice, stop the shaking.

"Hey, George. It's me. Mitchell. You know me, right?"

The wolf showed no signs of recognition, still advancing with its hackles raised.

"George, c'mon. I know you're in there."

The wolf bared its teeth. The thing in front of it was terrified, he could smell it, hear it, taste it. Why wasn't it running? It wasn't a hunt if it didn't run.

"Look, if you kill me then you're gonna be really pissed off at yourself and really miserable and, quite frankly, you'll hate me. And I really don't want that, mate. You're my best friend. I don't want you to be angry with me."

The werewolf had stopped, cocking its head in a curious manner at Mitchell because for some reason the noise coming out of its mouth was stopping it from going any further. From doing what it was programmed to do.

Mitchell held out his hand to George, like you would to a skittish dog.

"Now, go on and play or something. There's no use you hurting me, is there?"

The werewolf sniffed the creatures hand and smelled something familiar; smoke, coffee and hotdogs. The smell made it feel safe, secure. It inhaled again, drowning in a sensation that it had never experienced before. It whined, and the creature next to it smiled.

"See."

The werewolf snacked its teeth together when Mitchell moved his hand a little quickly, catching the side. Mitchell cried out, and the wolf snarled, raising its hackles again.

"Shit, George, seriously?" He hissed a breath in through his teeth and held on to his hand to staunch the blood flow. "Werewolf spit's like an anticoagulant to vampires _and_ it hurts like hell! That's gonna be burning for fucking days, man!"

He scowled at the wolf, forgetting it was a wolf and talking as he would to his best friend. And that was probably the best thing he could have done in the situation. George's Star of David fell out of his shirt and glinted against his denim shirt. The wolf's eyes flickered down to it, and Mitchell caught its eye.

"Yeah, see, it's yours. And I can't be all bad. Since when've vampires been able to wear religious symbols, huh?"

The wolf sat, and Mitchell wrapped a tissue around his wound.

"And here I am standing in the middle of a damn forest with a paper hanky around my bleeding hand from your teeth and arm from your claws and because I'm a vampire my ancient antibodies have to jump up out of their _coffins_ to fight off whatever curse you just put into me and it fucking burns like hell! Feels like a war's going on in my veins!"

The werewolf made a strange huffing noise.

"And now, a bloody _werewolf_ is laughing at me!"

The wolf wagged its tail and had no idea why it felt what it was feeling. It didn't truly know _what_ it was feeling. But it no longer wanted to kill the creature in front of it.

Vam-pyre.

That's what it sounded like. And that was real. It _meant_ something. It was primitive and right and it fit, just like they did.

A noise from behind them made them both jump, and the werewolf jumped to its feet, Mitchell adopting a defensive stance.

"S'alright, mate. I'm here too."

A deer jumped out of the bushes, and the wolf was instantly on its tail, snapping at its heels. It suddenly remembered Mitchell when a breeze brought his tense atmosphere back on to him.

"No, you go ahead. I'll keep up with you."

The wolf bounded off, and Mitchell remained where he was. Whatever they were sensing wasn't a deer, it had just frightened the deer off. The woods suddenly felt cold, and vast, dark and shadowy. There were so many places to hide. So many places to launch an attack.

And whatever it was was still around. Watching him.

He shook the feeling, and set off after George. Where ever they were, if they were together, they were safe.

At least he thought they were.

BH

George woke with a start the next morning. And, not to his surprise, he was covered in blood. Again. As always.

Although to his surprise, his clothes were set out in a neat pile beside him. He frowned, and looked around. He could smell cigarettes and coffee. He followed his nose and looked up into the tree where Mitchell was sitting, one leg on a branch, the other dangling down, smoking a cigarette, staring down at him and smirking.

"Morning, sleepyhead. How ya feeling?"  
>"You… you didn't leave?"<br>"Course not."  
>"What happened?"<br>"Oh, not much."

"Mitchell!"

"Okay, you bit me. And it hurt. Still does, actually. But we got on, all in all."

George frowned, and started to get dressed.

"But doesn't that mean…?"  
>"Oh, nah, I can fight it off. Don't worry about me."<p>

"No. You're the one that's worried."

Mitchell scowled.

"What're you hiding from me, Mitch?"

Mitchell took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled, smoke filling the air.

"Whoever is following us, they were here last night."  
>George's voice raised an octave, "What?"<p>

"You went after a deer. I don't think they'd risk taking us on when you've changed."

"But now…?"  
>"Exactly. That's why I'm here."<p>

Mitchell jumped down from the tree and landed on his feet like a cat.

"So hurry up. I'll feel far better once we're home."

George rolled his eyes and pulled on his shirt. He'd completely forgotten he was standing in a public wood, half naked with Mitchell's revelation. He pulled his jacket on, and then struggled with his shoes before standing up straight and looking at Mitchell.

"Come on then."

Mitchell pulled the Star of David out of his shirt, over his head, and passed it back to George who gratefully accepted it back.

"Thank you."

Mitchell smiled, "Don't worry about it. Thanks for not killing me."  
>"Well, that wasn't me really, was it?"<br>Mitchell rolled his eyes and looked at George.

"You're not all that different. The wolf is you, not the other way around. You don't need to worry about it."

George sighed, "I always have to worry. Because if I don't, then no one will."


End file.
